


bonetrousled by glamour

by simplycarryon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, aka the best kind of fic maybe??, goofy shipfic for no real reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 22:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He strikes a pose, then, and you imitate it, standing on your tiptoes and reaching for the sky with one hand.</p><p>He grins.</p><p>If you had a stomach, it would probably be fluttering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. picture perfect

**Author's Note:**

> originally based off of [this](http://sugarkillsall.tumblr.com/post/130377612223/is-it-a-surprise-to-anyone-that-my-other-fav) drawing by sugarkillsall, because i saw it and nearly cried laughing.
> 
> and then it turned into an actual fic instead of a very short thing?? papyton as a ship is growing on me a lot more than i ever thought it would. send help.
> 
> there will be more eventually!

If there’s one thing that training with Undyne has taught you, it’s that _breaking things is a form of affection,_ and with that thought in mind you throw yourself through her window and shatter glass everywhere.

You hit the ground perfectly, of course, your cape billowing majestically behind you as you land, and you strike a pose that flexes your nonexistent muscles and lets the light hit you just right. 

“Oh, hey Papyrus,” Undyne says from the couch in her bedroom, looking… entirely unimpressed. You’ll have to try harder next time. More posing, maybe, or a glitter bomb. Or a fanfare. Could you pay Sans to play a fanfare, you wonder. _Should_ you. “Hang on, we’re almost done with this episode.”

“Are you watching animes for small child babies again?” you ask, and you duck reflexively as she throws a spear in your direction without actually looking at you. “Okay!! I will just stand here and look majestic, which is not at all difficult for someone with my exceedingly handsome bone structure.”

There’s a crowd in Undyne’s house today, you notice, if three is a crowd. Undyne and Alphys are piled on the couch, taking up all of the cushions, and Mettaton sits at the kitchen table looking as bored as you’ve ever seen him.

“I’m only here as a chaperone, darling,” he says, shooting you a wink over his untouched cup of tea. “Goodness knows what sort of trouble those two would get up to if I weren’t here to intercede.”

You nod knowingly. Undyne’s burned her house down more times than you can count, and between her passion and Alphys’s… sciencing things, they’d probably have the place in flames in minutes. Or worse!! You’re not sure what the worst-case scenario is, at this point, but it probably involves a giant anime robot taking over the world or something, so really it’s a good thing Mettaton’s here to make sure they don’t try to build that.

You continue to pose dramatically, mostly because you can. 

Before you can even register that he’s moved, Mettaton is very, very close, looking your pose up and down with a thoughtful hand on his chin. “You’ve quite the eye for that, sweetheart,” he says finally, and you bask a little bit in the praise coming from _Mettaton_ even if you already know you are very good at posing. “Try like this, hm?”

He strikes a pose, then, and you imitate it, standing on your tiptoes and reaching for the sky with one hand.

He grins.

If you had a stomach, it would probably be fluttering.

“Now like this,” he encourages, striking a new pose; you imitate that, and then the next one, and then the next, and suddenly instead of giving you a pose to copy he’s dancing with you, his hands guiding yours, his feet directing your steps in an impromptu waltz that ends in him dipping you gracefully towards the floor.

You are very confused, but Mettaton _beams_ at you, his smile lighting up his face as he pulls you back upright, and you consider very briefly that it really was a pleasant experience.

“Perfect, darling. You have the true grace of a dancer,” he says, taking your face between his hands. “You should join me on stage sometime. Between the two of us, we’d set the dance floor on _fire._ ”

“I can help with the emergency evacuations if we do,” you offer helpfully, and he laughs and lets go.

“Of course, gorgeous. Here—take this,” and he fiddles with a compartment in his chestplate, producing a marker and a glossy square of paper. He signs the latter with the former and then hands it to you, still beaming. “I must be off—I have a show to attend to.”

“I thought you were chaperoning??”

“Hm? Oh. No, that was a lie. I wanted Alphys to help me with something, but those two have been watching anime nonstop since this morning. I’m all out of patience!” He tosses his head huffily, just enough to shake a few loose strands of hair out of his eyes. “Besides, I’d make a terrible chaperone. But I digress. Thank you for dancing with me, darling, you’re _wonderful._ ”

He sweeps out the door with a wave, leaving you staring after him, his photo still gleaming in your hands.

\---

You don’t give the photo another thought until you get home, electing to tuck it away in your armor while you and Undyne punch vegetables a lot, but when you get back to Snowdin you can feel it poking against your ribcage and you pull it out and turn it over.

It’s just a photo, the rational part of your head says.

A thick, glossy, professional-print photo that all but glitters in the light, sure, but it’s really just a piece of paper, which means YOU SHOULD NOT BE BOTHERED BY IT. Many things come on paper. Good things. Things like the Junior Jumble, and friend letters, and spaghetti recipes, and cool posters, and—the list goes on. On paper! But not this piece of paper.

This piece of paper has _Mettaton_ on it.

Mettaton, legs splayed, one hand on his hip. The look he’s giving the camera is sensual at the _very least_ , his one visible eye heavily lidded, his tongue sticking out as if to tease the viewer.

You’re not sure why this makes you feel like it does, because you’ve met him in real life now, and he is definitely exactly like this pretty much all the time?

Maybe it’s the writing that’s bothering you, you ponder, tracing the red writing with a bony fingertip. _Call me!_ it says, the red accentuating his face on one side and it’s really very attractive if you think about it _which you do not_ , and then, on the other side, _Love, Mettaton._ There’s a heart scrawled in the margin, and a phone number on the back of the photo.

You don’t recognize the string of numbers, so you figure this is his actual phone number and not his show’s call-in number (which you have pre-programmed into your phone already since it would be very cool to hear your voice on his show if you could ever actually get through??).

The pieces click into place, the fluttering sensation returns to your lack of stomach, and you look at the photo again, feeling heat spread across your cheekbones even though you have no blood to speak of to do the heating.

“What are you looking at?” Sans asks from behind you, and you _squawk_ in a way very unbefitting a future Royal Guard and clutch the photo to your chest so he can’t see it.

“NOTHING!”

“Sure looks like something to me.”

You hesitate, feeling a little guilty for hiding something— _anything_ —from Sans. Even this. Even the butterflies. And then you hand him the photo.

Sans looks at it, then back at you.

“Huh. He must like you a metta- _ton,_ ” he says finally, his grin wide.

“STOP.” You’re smiling anyway, despite the feeling that your face might catch fire at any moment. “I think he wants to be friends? We danced at Undyne’s house.”

“Right,” Sans says, handing the photo back, to your renewed embarrassment. “Friends.”

“Friends dance! And I wouldn’t want to presume anything!!”

He pats your arm, a gesture that’s probably intended to be comforting but it’s Sans so it really just comes across as highly amused. “I’m not judging you, bro.”

“There’s nothing to judge! He is a very attractive robot who is very good at dancing and being on TV, and also selling things? And is very famous and popular.” The thought hits you like a sack of bricks, then, and you falter a little. “Not like me.”

Sans is quiet for a minute, hands deep in his pockets, one eye burning blue in his skull the way it always does when he’s about to be weirdly, uncharacteristically serious.

“You’re real popular,” he says finally, nudging you with an elbow. “Maybe you don’t wake to a shower of kisses or whatever, but I couldn’t ask for a better brother. And then there’s all of those friends you have.”

The thought of your friends—actual real physical friends that _you have_ that _like you back_ —makes you brighten instantly.

“You’re right!” you declare, feeling immediately better. “I am very popular! And skilled. And handsome.”

“Want me to ask Mettaton if he wants to be those things with you?”

You think that Sans offering to actually do something for once sounds a little suspicious, and anyway it would probably be better for you to handle this yourself, so you shake your head. “I’ll—call him,” you say, fumbling for your phone, which you drop; it skids a few feet away and you decide that maybe that’s a sign. “Later.” 

“Okay, bro,” Sans says, giving you another nudge. “Wanna make me some food?”

“DO I EVER,” you reply, excitement trumping anything else you might be feeling. It’s rare enough that Sans agrees to eat anything you make, let alone asks you to make it in the first place. “I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WILL GLADLY MAKE YOU A PLATE OF MY FAMOUS, MASTERFULLY-PREPARED SPAGHETTI.”


	2. the call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phone calls are hard! But you are the great Papyrus. That tends to make things easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2/?? more to come!
> 
> thank you all for your positive messages! i'm so glad you all like this ridiculous fic.

It takes you a few tries to work up the nerve to actually dial the number on the back of the photo. Well, not nerve, because you are not _nervous._ But you are a little concerned that maybe you’ll catch him at a bad time, or during a show, or something else that would be a disastrous… disaster. You almost convince yourself to wait until tomorrow before you remember that you are Papyrus, fearless member of the Royal Guard (eventually definitely someday), and you are not afraid of anything.

You thumb the CALL button on your phone for the fourth time, actually letting it ring this time, and you hold the breath you don’t need to take until he picks up on the other end. “Hello?”

“HELLO,” you begin, accidentally expelling all of the breath you’ve been holding by shouting. You almost hang up on him out of embarrassment. But you don’t, because you’ve come this far, so you’re just about to try it again a little softer when he takes your fumbling silence for having finished talking. 

Good! That was your plan all along.

“Oh! Papyrus, darling! I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me,” he says, and you clutch the phone a little closer, because he remembers your _name._ Sans was right! (Sans is usually right, even if you’re not a fan of admitting it.)

“No! How could I? I mean—I haven’t forgotten! I was just—busy! Cooking!” you exclaim. He laughs, a chuckle that starts somewhere deep in his throat, and even the _sound_ of it flusters you enough that you almost drop your phone again. “But here I am! Calling! Which you said to do!!”

“I did, didn’t I?” You almost answer the question before you realize it’s rhetorical. “Well, gorgeous, why exactly are you calling?”

“… Because you said to!!” You’re pretty sure you just said that, but maybe he’s so busy being popular that he didn’t hear you. “I like your picture! It’s very, um.”

“I’ve been saving that one for a _while,"_ Mettaton says, and you can hear him smile, all the way from Hotland. “Just for you, gorgeous. Listen, I’m free tomorrow night—how does dinner sound?”

“Dinner? Like… a date?”

“Is that not what that implies, darling?” he asks, sounding puzzled.

You pin your phone between your shoulder and your skull and whip the Dating Rulebook out of your pocket, flipping through the index. Dinner, dinner, dinner—aha. “That _is_ what that implies, yes!” you declare, maybe prouder than you should be. Of course a fabulous robot like Mettaton would have the Rulebook memorized. You probably sound like a dating _beginner._ Which you are! But you would rather he didn’t know that. “Wowie! A real date!! Do you want to come to my house? I, master chef Papyrus, will cook you the best spaghetti you’ve ever had—“

Mettaton laughs again, and the sound makes you shiver a little.

“Slow down a little, sweetheart. I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you to such a degree. No, no, I have just the place in mind—my restaurant!”

“It wouldn’t be an _inconvenience,”_ you begin, not really wanting to _correct_ him, because you really would like very much to make a plate of your finest spaghetti for him and you’re not sure how he could think he’d be inconveniencing you. But maybe that’s part of a secret chapter in the Rulebook that you haven’t found yet.

“Nonsense, darling, I won’t hear of it. Come by the MTT Hotel tomorrow at 6?” 

You nod furiously into the receiver, forgetting that he can’t exactly see you, but maybe the sound of it carries because he picks the gesture up anyways.

“Good. I’ll see you then, sunshine. Toodles!”

He hangs up, and you beam at the call-ended tone for a few seconds before the realization that _you have a date, **with Mettaton** ,_ sets in.

You shriek.

Sans takes it in stride, much like he always does; he doesn’t even look surprised as he pushes the rest of his spaghetti away. (You think very briefly that you must have done a fantastic job on that plate, too, if he’s full after only two bites, but that is not the point.)

“So when’s your date?”

“Tomorrow night!!” you reply, your bones practically rattling in your eagerness. “Wowie! I can’t believe it!”

“Well, I’m rooting for ya,” Sans says, tilting his chair back on two legs and propping his slippered feet up on the table. You’re still too excited to make him stop, or even care that he’s probably getting dirt all over the wooden surface. “Lemme know if you need help getting ready.”

“You wouldn’t help if I did??” You almost have the time to be concerned, _yet again_ , about Sans offering to help you with something, before he gives you a lazy thumbs-up.

“Nah, but I’d cheer you on harder. S’good for the bones.”

You flap a hand at him, already moving on from the conversation.

You have a _date._

You need to _prepare._


	3. the date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ALMOST TIME FOR YOUR DATE??!?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3/??? at least one more chapter on its way! this one kicked my ass but I finally kicked it back, please enjoy
> 
> also I am having trouble with comments not loading when I go to reply to things, but I do see every comment you leave and they fill me with determination *v* thank you all so much for reading!!

It’s 5:59.

You’ve been waiting outside the hotel for three hours, but you don’t want to be early, because the rulebook says that’s a faux pas. Admittedly, you don’t know what a faux pas _is_ , but it doesn’t even look like words you know, which probably means it’s Super Ultra Bad To Do That Thing. So you don’t.

You and your clothes are squeaky clean, and you’ve dabbed a generous smudge of expensive MTT-brand Bishie Cream behind where your ears would be if you had them. Your surprise pasta gift is perfectly prepared, wrapped in glittery paper that makes you think of Mettaton under stage lights. Your hands are not shaking in the least! It’s pretty great.

Your phone buzzes, ticking over to 6:00 as a text arrives.

_good luck out there bro._

And then, a second later,

_call me if you need anything ok?_

_I WILL,_ you text back, briefly, and then you tuck your phone away and make sure everything you’re wearing is in order before you step forward.

The doors open automatically, making you feel very important indeed, and as you step inside you’re hit with light and sound. It’s an almost physical impact, the whole of it washing over you like that one time Sans flooded the washing machine and thus the entire house. If you weren’t as sturdy and tough and awesome as you are, you’d probably be floored by it, but you stand your ground and shield your eyes against the—spotlights? have there always been spotlights here?—with one hand.

“Darling!” a familiar voice calls, and Mettaton materializes out of the brightness, swooping in to clasp your free hand; he presses a kiss to the back of your glove, and you feel like your face might catch on fire. “So glad you could make it!”

“Of course I could make it! We have a date!” You press your other hand to your face instead, the cool surface of your glove a welcome reprieve from the sudden heat you’re feeling definitely because Hotland is very hot and not because the robot is. “Unless I’m interrupting something? Are you filming a new show?”

“I am!” Mettaton says, his face lighting up. “But you aren’t interrupting a thing, sunshine—you’re the one making all this possible! Welcome to _Dating a Killer Robot!”_

You gape at him, a little, and he pops your dropped jaw closed with a teasing finger.

You're lot warmer than you have any right to be without any blood or skin to call your own. 

You shake off the feeling, though, fighting past it to give Mettaton a confused look. “I’m not sure I understand,” you admit, even if admitting that makes you feel even more like a dating newbie. “Should we postpone our date?”

“What? Oh, sweetheart, no. This _is_ our date!” Mettaton says, propelling you bodily to a table set up in the center of several spotlights. He pulls out your chair for you, and you sit, still staring. You can see the cameras now, somewhere behind the heat of the lights, and everything sort of falls into place.

He’s filming a show about _you._ You and _him._ About your _date._

You’re on a show, with _Mettaton,_ and the lights shine and the music blares and honestly you thought you’d be happier about being on TV with him. Of course you’re _happy_ —you’re with Mettaton and he’s very nice and the spotlights glitter sharply against his polished metal and he’s a dazzling host with a bubbling personality—but you’d thought it would be just the two of you. Just you, and some good food, and getting to know each other. Saying compliments. Sharing secrets. Date things!

But he looks so very pleased, across the table from you, his smile brighter than three spotlights combined. It makes you wonder if this is all part of that secret chapter of the Rulebook that you keep somehow not finding.

You decide to leave the date-planning to the obvious expert, and you smile at Mettaton across the table and wave a little bit in case he missed you. Which he didn’t, but now you’re sure of that! He waves back, or maybe he’s waving to someone operating a camera—you can’t really tell.

“So Mettaton,” you say, loudly, barely able to hear yourself over the music. You resist the urge to pull the Rulebook out of your pocket for reassurance. Pulling that out on camera could _ruin_ your suave experienced dating appearance!! So you don’t. In case someone you know is watching. “Do you like pasta?”

“What, darling? You’ll have to speak up a bit, this new music is quite an earful,” Mettaton replies, motioning at someone in his line of sight with a very general wave. Someone appears with a tray of food, and now you have a steak, in the shape of Mettaton’s face? It’s very nice. He _is_ your favorite rectangle, and this steak captures his essence like it was meant to be. 

“Can we turn it down?” you half-shout. Mettaton cups a hand around his ear, encouraging you to repeat yourself a little bit louder, and you sigh and prop your elbows on the table even if it’s bad manners.

“Is it the venue, gorgeous? You’re absolutely right, how _terribly_ rude of me—let’s get some candles and mood music in here, people, post haste! What the hell do I pay you for?” He snaps his fingers a couple of times, and the spotlights you’ve been roasting under dim to almost nothing; someone trades the bone-rattling music for something piano-y and soft; someone else whisks in and puts candles on the table between the two of you and honestly that’s not really better but—you try and think of it as better, because at least you can hear him talking now.

 _“So_ sorry about that darling,” he prompts you, leaning forward a little. The candlelight is a beautiful soft glow against his metallic skin too, you think, now that you _can_ think without blaring music rattling your brain. “I should’ve known you’d prefer a more romantic setting. Does this suffice?”

You nod, and poke at your steak, not really wanting to cut into it and hurt steak-Mettaton. Even though he’s meant to be eaten, you’d feel bad taking a bite out of him. So you push it aside, and you watch real-Mettaton across the table, unwrapping a glittery purple burger with delicate care.

“Do humans actually eat those?” you ask, curious.

“Oh… probably.” Mettaton finishes the unwrapping, leaving the burger gleaming on sparkly paper. You think maybe you’re being rude, not eating when he’s eating, but instead of taking a bite he just pushes it forward a little so the cameras can see it better. “Humans eat burgers, right? I just make them a little more dazzling. Smile for the cameras, darling, the audience loves you.”

You smile. You’re always smiling! The great Papyrus does not _not_ smile. Probably.

Mettaton smiles, too, and he pushes a candlestick aside so that you don’t have to constantly crane your neck to look around it at him. “So tell me about yourself, beautiful! I feel like I barely know you.”

“Well!” you begin. How nice of him to ask! And very on point with the Rulebook, too. A true dating master. “I am the great Papyrus! A very famous sentry who will eventually be a Royal Guard! And I am also a master chef, so you should come to my house sometime so I can make you a meal you’ll never forget!!” You watch him excitedly for his reaction—you’re not a glamorous rock star TV robot, but surely your personal credentials have to be at least a little bit impressive.

It takes him a minute to understand that you’ve paused—a minute in which you realize he’s posing intensely for a camera that’s slightly behind you instead of listening, and when your face falls it is only a little bit because you’re very good at not giving yourself away like that or making your date feel bad, maybe.

“Well that’s certainly something, darling! Now why don’t you tell me something about myself! Just to balance things out!” he prompts, framing his face with both hands.

You don’t even have to think about that, really; even with the weirdness of this date and the way things have gone and the fact that there are a lot of cameras pointed at your handsome face, you still like Mettaton a lot.

“You’re very cool,” you say, noting how he’s fixated on your every word now that you’re talking about him. “You’re my favorite robot—your hair is nice, and your arms and your legs and all of you—and you’re really super good at dancing?? And entertaining, and being on TV. And you’re very famous and popular,” you finish, maybe a little lamely.

He gives you an _enormous_ smile.

You do try very hard to smile back.

“Well thank you, sunshine! I do agree with everything you just said, and incidentally I think you’re very nice as well! Shall we move on to the next part of our date?” Mettaton asks, leaning in again. He smiles like he’s everything there is to love in the world, and for a moment you’re silent.

You look at him, then down at the table, then back up at him. 

“I thought when you asked me on a date, you wanted to go on a _date,_ not pretend to be on one for the camera,” you say finally, and he looks puzzled, lacing his fingers together and propping his chin up on them, one eyebrow quizzically raised.

“There’s nothing pretend about this, darling. The audience loves us. I’ve been monitoring our ratings, of course, and keeping tabs on the UnderNet feeds—there’s four new hashtags already! People can’t decide if we should be called Papyton or Mettyrus—“

“I don’t think this is for me,” you tell him, and you feel intensely guilty when his expression changes from upbeat TV-show host to very shocked TV-show host. “All of this. I like you! I really do!! And at first I thought, okay, maybe it will be cool to be on TV with _you,_ a very cool TV star, but I—“

You almost stop, almost take it all back right there. Mettaton looks dismayed, and maybe a little bit like he might cry, which makes your heart twist itself up in knots. But you are his friend—or at least you think you are—and that means you need to be honest with him above all else. 

“If all you want from this is someone to be on your new show so they can say nice things about you, then—I would be happy to do that?? But I thought this was a date, where we could get to know each other, and then maybe do cool things together and share secrets and become closer! This… this isn’t what I wanted. And I’m very sorry I didn’t tell you before, Mettaton, I thought maybe I would like it if I gave it a chance. And I want to. But I don’t. So… I’m sorry.”

There. You said it. You stop looking at him, finally, and look at your hands instead, because they don’t look as sad as he does. 

“Darling,” Mettaton begins, his voice electronically hoarse. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“Thank you for dinner,” you tell him, standing up, “and everything, and—and being very nice and kind to me. You are a very cool robot.” You’re not sure why it feels like you have something sad in your eye, but you do your best to ignore it. “I hope you find someone you actually want to date, because you deserve someone who is just as cool as you.”

You excuse yourself, then, leaving the restaurant, then the resort entirely. Mettaton looks like he might say something else, but he just swallows heavily, mechanically, and watches you go.

You try not to think too hard about him sitting alone.

He really does deserve the best. Better than you by a long shot.

 

 

Sans makes you a cup of hot cocoa.

He says it’s good for the bones, something about extra calcium, but you can tell from the way that he completely avoids asking you how the date went that he already has a pretty good idea of the answer.

You’re glad for it, though. You’re glad he knows things even when you don’t tell him, you’re glad he’s such a good brother who cares a lot even if he is a lazy bones who flops on the couch next to you and nearly spills your cocoa. 

You don’t even pretend to be miffed when he rests his head on your shoulder and starts snoring softly.


	4. impastable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast. Also: pasta puns, coffee, and flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (powerslides into your inboxes) GUESS WHO'S VERY SORRY ABOUT TAKING AN ETERNITY AND A HALF TO UPDATE THIS! IT'S ME, YOU ARE CORRECT
> 
> the fourth and final installment of bonetrousled by glamour! thank you all for sticking with me through my inability to update on a regular schedule and/or at all, you've been a wonderful audience!

Life goes on, as it tends to do.

You can’t bring yourself to watch any of Mettaton’s show while you wait for Sans to wake up. It’s not that you don’t want to see Mettaton again, it’s—mostly it’s a feeling you aren’t really familiar with. It’s like a weight in your nonexistent stomach, like a sinking feeling and a prickle of heat in your face and, also, sort of like Undyne punched you really hard. And not in the nice way, either, where she’s just joking around, but like that one time you were sparring and she hit you hard enough to make your head spin on your neck a few times and you fell over and she had to carry you home.

So: you don’t watch Mettaton’s show right now. Not even the cooking one, and you’re disappointed that you’re missing the new episode, but you kind of don’t want to feel like you’ve been punched and are also going to be sick.

Also you don’t want to wake up Sans, who’s passed out on the couch next to you.

Sans snores like he’s trying to inhale the TV, and you let him. Normally you might carry him to bed, or stick something in his nose, or both. But not tonight, because tonight he’s been really nice to you, and—also you could use the company. Not because you’re lonely!! Just, because Sans is a good brother and you love him.

When morning rolls around—after you’ve made up no fewer than 72 puzzles and have done as many crosswords as have been within arm’s reach—you get up, and you make Sans some breakfast spaghetti. You’re a very good brother, after all, and you’ve generally taken it upon yourself to make sure Sans is fed and mostly awake before he has to head off to his guard shift. 

Breakfast spaghetti comes out the same as lunch spaghetti, if you’re entirely honest with yourself, but you cut the meatballs into breakfasty shapes and place them carefully in the sauce. You also make coffee, following Undyne’s instructions for THE MOST PUNCH CUP OF COFFEE EVER, even if punching the beans individually makes your finger bones hurt a little. You are very tough, though!! You can handle it!!!

“Are you making coffee or punch?” Sans asks, leaning on the counter next to you.

“Yes,” you reply, crushing another bean beneath your awesome fist of Papyrus. You scoop the collected coffee dust into a cup and add hot water, stirring vigorously. “Don’t you worry about a thing today, Sans! I’m making food for us, and then we can hang out and do brotherly things, like design traps??”

“Sounds good to me, bro.” Sans accepts the cup, staring at it blankly before pouring the coffee directly into his face; THE MOST PUNCH CUP OF COFFEE EVER splashes through his eye sockets, waterfalls down his ribcage, and ends up on the floor.

You’re 99% sure that’s how coffee’s supposed to be drunk, so you roll with it.

“So, while you were busy being lazy last night, I had a wonderful thought for a puzzle!!” you inform him, setting the perfectly-prepared dish of pasta down at his place. He still looks a little spaced out, and you’re not sure how long it takes the coffeeine to kick in, so you nudge him gently into his chair and put a fork between his fingers. (Honestly, you have to do _everything_ around here.) “Consider: a large bank of switches! And all of them must be flipped!! But: there are also dogs!!!”

“Dogs,” Sans says, picking out a meatball that you cut in the shape of a toaster pastry and popping it into his mouth.

“And once the switches are all flipped!! The trap-ee will be trapped!! By an irresistible bowl of pasta made by me, the great Papyrus!!!!!!!” You pose, cape fluttering. It’s a feat, considering that there’s no wind inside your house, but Undyne has taught you the Heroic Cape Flutter and you are her best student, after all.

Sans chews thoughtfully on the meatball. “Huh. I bet they’ll never get past-a that,” he says, grinning widely.

You pretend not to smile, and you stamp your foot once or twice for good measure. That’s the rule of puns—you’re supposed to be mad at whoever says them first. Especially because Sans’s are bad, and also really good at the same time??

“Sans! _Honestly!!”_

“It’ll be a pastastrophe,” he adds. “Impastable to escape from.”

“SANS!!!!”

You know from groan-worthy experience that the grin on his face means that he’s awake enough to empty his arsenal of truly staggeringly horrible puns. That’s okay, though, because you have your own fusilli-ade of pasta wordplay ready, and—

A knock is all that prevents you from becoming trapped in a pasta pun hell of your own making, and you’re very slightly grateful for it.

It’s a gentle sort of knocking, which rules out Undyne at least. You wonder if maybe the human has come back for a visit, which would be great, because you have been perfecting a new cooking technique that will _knock their stripey socks off—_

Mettaton stands at your door, and you almost drop your spaghetti-cooking spoon, because he looks—well, as disheveled as a glamorous rock star TV robot can look, with his mascara running in elegant rivulets and his winged eyeliner smudged just the tiniest most fashionable bit. Maybe that’s the most disheveled he can be, you think, and you feel bad. Did you make him feel like that? 

“Mettaton!” you say, finally, realizing that you’ve just sort of been staring at him for a few seconds. “Um, hello! Welcome to my house!! Did you need something?”

He seems very interested in your pauldrons and not your face, and that’s okay because they’re very cool but you wonder if you have a smudge of sauce on your skull or something, before he breaks that thought by offering you—a bouquet?

Closer examination makes you beam delightedly at him, because the flowers are made of pasta shells, curlicues and bowties and spirals spray-painted in colorful glittery metallic paint and glued in floral shapes to long-pasta stems. “This is very nice, Mettaton!” you say, brightly, admiring a thread of campanelle that look like pink bellflowers. “Did you make these yourself?”

He nods wordlessly, holding up hands covered in glue and paint.

“Is it, um, is today’s show _Making Pasta Flowers With Mettaton?”_ you ask, and he flinches a little, still avoiding your gaze. You stick your head out of the doorway expectantly, looking for the camera crews, the makeup artists, the—whatever it is that Mettaton has with him whenever he does a show, you’re not really sure but there should probably be at least one person with a camera. But there’s nobody out there but Mettaton.

Well, Mettaton is the most important part of any show starring Mettaton, so you suppose he has that bit down at least!

Sans nudges you with an elbow, pushing you gently out of the way of the door. “Hey, Mettaton. You look like you could use a drink. Why don’t you c’mon in?”

“Yes!” you exclaim, knocking your skull with an exasperated fist. “How rude of me! Please, come in!! If you’re here to record part of a show, I did just clean the house yesterday, so you’re in luck!!!” 

“I’m not here to record anything,” Mettaton says, softly, enough that you barely pick up on the words at first. “I’m here to—to apologize. I was unbelievably rude to you last night, darling.” 

“There is nothing to apologize for!” you inform him, guiding him to the couch and letting him pick which side to sit on before you take a seat next to him. Both sides are lumpy and jangly, so it doesn’t really matter, but it is a polite thing to offer a guest their choice of seats, and you are a polite skeleton. “In fact, I should be apologizing! I turned you down on live television!! Your viewers probably—“ You falter at the thought that brings, but only for a moment before you persevere, a little more quietly. “Your viewers probably hate me.”

“What? No! No, darling, no, please don’t think that—“ Mettaton whirls to face you, clasping your hands in his for a second before remembering something that makes him let go again, pull his hands back, like he’s afraid he might hurt you. Which he won’t, because! It’s very hard to hurt you!! Because you are very strong!! “I’ve issued an apology to my viewers and had the show pulled from the air. I should never have put you on the spot like that.”

“No, probably not,” you agree, and he looks at his feet again. “It was pretty cool to be there, with you, on TV, but—I am a simple skeleton, and it wouldn’t do to have all of your viewers falling head over heels for me!!”

Mettaton makes a sound that you think is something between laughing and crying.

“Papyrus,” he says, and the spike of happiness when he says your name nearly makes you fall off the couch, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I really am sorry. What I did last night was—selfish, and wrong. I’ve probably ruined everything between us, and I understand if you hate me for it.”

“I don’t have a hateful bone in my body!” you say, before you can really stop yourself, and you shoot Sans a _look_ that says _don’t you dare_ and for once he doesn’t even snicker at the pun. “I could never hate you, Mettaton. You’re my favorite robot!!”

“Really?”

“Yes! Granted, you are the only robot I know! So you are also my least favorite!!” You think maybe that addendum doesn’t help, because he looks upset again, but you continue. “But you are my most favorite even more than you are my least favorite! So please don’t be sad!!”

His expression doesn’t change, hovering somewhere between hopeful and sad, and after a moment you reach over and put your very cool gloved hand over his.

“I forgive you, Mettaton,” you tell him, because you do, because you would have even if he’d never apologized, but the apologizing is nice. “I hope we can still be friends?”

Mettaton looks at you, really, maybe for the first time all day, and smiles.

“Thank you, Papyrus. I’d like that.”

 

 

When Sans brings you both cups of hot chocolate, yours tastes like happiness and extra whipped cream.


End file.
